


strangers in the dark

by TheCherryPieButWithLifeguards (TheAceApples)



Series: Trope Mash-Ups [8]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: GFY, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:31:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23603110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAceApples/pseuds/TheCherryPieButWithLifeguards
Summary: The desert has a strange magic to it, make no mistake.
Relationships: Red Harvest/Vasquez
Series: Trope Mash-Ups [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1575487
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	strangers in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by Norcumii over on Tumblr for the Fanfiction Trope Mash-Up ask meme: "OOO! AU mashup, please! Ship of choice (also because I don't really know Mag7 beyond gifsets) with Time Travel and Hair Brushing/Braiding!"

Sam Chisolm is intimately aware that the desert is a dangerous, unknowable place. Many a traveler, homesteader, bounty hunter, and outlaw has stumbled their way out of it with tales taller than mountains about all manner of inconceivable happenings. This, though—this is something else entirely.

Not a full day out from Rose Creek, settled around the fire for supper, and two very familiar figures walked out of the darkness and sat down for their share. Only problem is, they number nine already, and Vasquez and Red Harvest have already settled into place in the camp.

As unnerving as the encounter is, he can admit they look well.

Vasquez, from what Sam can see, has filled out—not quite so lean and rangy. His clothes are clean and well-made, with intricate patterns and neat stitching; a couple small loops of silver and gold glint at the tips of his ears and the bright red feather slipped into the band of his hat catch the eye. He looks at ease with their circumstances, adopting an easy sprawl next to Emma Cullen and giving her a pleased grin when she hands over supper without faltering.

On the other hand, aside from having a bit more meat on his bones and a mulish expression, Red Harvest is virtually indistinguishable from his counter-part but for the hair. Sam understands that _their_—for a given value of possession—Red Harvest wears his hair unusually short in mourning of a recent loss of a family member; this strange newcomer wears his past his shoulders.

It makes for an odd tableau, them sitting next to each other, resolutely refusing to meet each other’s eye.

Not much is said as they eat their shares.

“Ahem—” Vasquez, the stranger, eventually begins, turning to face Faraday. A long groan cuts him off, startling the rest of the camp, Sam included, by the fact that it comes from his companion.

“If you even start, _so help me,”_ the strange Red Harvest warns, shocking them all further.

_“Rojito,”_ Vasquez says imploringly, twisting to meet his eyes, “please. _When_ will I have this chance again?”

“You don’t have this chance now. Eat your disgusting beans,” is his flat reply. After a beat, his gaze moves to their employer and, with a fair imitation of apology, says, “Nothing against your cooking, Emma.”

White-faced and purse-lipped, she nods and says, “Thank you.” It does no one any good to be discourteous to whom- or whatever the desert places in one’s path.

“You are a cruel _marido,”_ the strange Vasquez says without heat, causing his counter-part to choke on his food. The grin the stranger shoots him is broad, edging on filthy.

Red Harvest’s mirror sighs and leans over to catch their Vasquez’s eye. “We’re not married,” he says, as if to be reassuring.

“We are a _little _bit married,” Vasquez protests.

“Then I want a divorce.”

“Mexicans,” the strange, settled Vasquez informs his companion with great dignity, “do _not _get divorced. We _die.”_

“I can arrange that.”

The uncomfortable silence following that statement—uncomfortable for the rest of them; the participants seem very at ease with such banter—is broken, of course, by Faraday. “Uh, wow. I would not have predicted the two of you gettin’ hitched.”

“Well,” Vasquez drawls, with a trouble-making glint in his eye, “only after Sam turned him down.”

Refusing to react to the bait, Sam breathes evenly and takes an unconcerned bite of supper.

“If you get to tell lies about me and Sam, then I get to tell lies about you and _güero,”_ Red Harvest serenely replies. The younger version at his side looks mostly unaffected and uninterested in the conversation, but for the tightness around his eyes. There, he looks a bit hunted. “I have plenty of material.”

The interlopers size each other up.

“You let me do it, I let you tell _one”_—Vasquez holds up his index finger for effect—“outrageous lie.”

“Deal.”

Grinning like a coyote, the stranger whips out a familiar deck of cards and holds them out to Faraday with a troubling amount of glee. “Pick a card, _¡güero!”_

“Oh, Jesus,” Faraday mutters, and somehow that’s what breaks the tension within the camp. Their resident gambler, faced with an older and cheerier image of one of their own, beaten at his own little game. They all manage to at least crack a smile when Vasquez pulls Faraday’s card from the Irishman’s own vest pocket.

After that, the older Red Harvest mutters a exasperated, “I can’t believe I put up with this on purpose. Make better decisions than I did,” to his younger self and then launches into the promised tall tale. For all that the man isn’t the loquacious sort, he still manages to tell a sweeping and dramatic tale of love unrequited between Vasquez and Faraday.

It includes much maidenly sighing on the part of Vasquez, and unwitting encouragement on the part of Faraday, until the truth outs and the two resolve their miscommunications. Faraday lets Vasquez down gently, who takes the rejection with stoic acceptance and a single, beautiful tear, before riding out into the sunset. The entire camp, minus either Red Harvest and including both Vasquezes, is in stitches by the time the tale ends with, “And that is possibly the most intricate lie I’ve ever told.”

The evening winds down and their unexpected company offers to take the first watch. Sam allows it, knowing that the two travelers will likely be gone come morning. He watches them with curiosity, Vasquez’s fingers carding through Red Harvest’s hair, which the Comanche accepts with a put-upon sigh.

It’s encouraging, seeing these two together in whatever way they are, clearly years after whatever may happen down in Rose Creek.

The image of Vasquez tenderly creating tiny little braids in Red Harvest’s long hair carries him off to sleep, and later, through the battle. These two, at least, come out the other side better than they had begun.


End file.
